Ayla's tent was situated about three hundred yards away from the barricade, far enough back so as not to be hit by any arrows from the battle, as long as the barricade wasn't breached. It was also situated to the side, so that Ayla could see past their defensive line to whatever lay beyond. She was both grateful and frightened that Isenbard had placed it thus.
Grateful because it showed her he trusted in her ability to handle what she saw.
Frightened because it left her no choice but to see.
She saw beyond the barricade. And at that moment, seeing beyond the barricade meant that she could see the enemy approaching in full force.
So, apparently, could Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar, who had joined her on the meadow behind the barricade. They hurried over to her.
“Milady! Milady, do you see this?” With a shaking finger, Sir Rudolfus pointed towards the opposite bank.
Ayla studied the hundreds of pikemen and archers approaching the barricade. The sun glittered on the tips of a forest of spears.
“I would say they are rather hard to miss,” she pointed out.
“We must surrender immediately!”
“Must we?” She raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that I am the one in charge here.”
“Now look here, girl,” Waldar chuckled nervously. “You can't honestly expect us to fight this many men. Quit this silly game and tell this Sir Luca you're surrendering.”
Behind the two men, Ayla could see a massive iron-clad figure leaving Isenbard's tent. He moved slowly, but held himself perfectly erect. Thank the Lord!
Returning her attention to her other two vassals, she fixed them with a death-stare. “I do not consider protecting the lives of my subjects a silly game, Sir Waldar,” she said. “And when conversing with me, you will kindly use the proper form of address. Listen closely now. I have no intention of surrendering my land and my people to some villainous invader! I have commanded you to defend those lands, and you are sworn to defend me. If you choose to break that vow, then you had better go to the castle dungeons and lock yourselves in, traitors that you are. I have not the men to spare to do it for you!”
She let her gaze wander from one to the other. Behind them, the iron-clad figure of the knight took up his position and gripped his sword. “Now are you two going to follow my orders, yes or no?”
Sir Rudolfus swallowed, hard. “I will do my duty, as you command, Milady. Though I do not know what use I will be in battle.”
“That we will have to see. Sir Waldar?”
The fat man's three chins worked for a moment. And for a moment longer. And longer. A deep sound came out of his throat. It took Ayla a moment to realize it was laughter, getting louder and louder.
“Ha!” the fat man boomed. “Haaahahaha! You're a good one! All right, Milady! I've never avoided a drunken brawl, maybe it's time I get into one while I'm sober! Let's go show these sons of bitches what stuff we're made of!”
Ayla breathed out in relief. “An admirable attitude, Sir Waldar. Though I would appreciate it if you could moderate your language. Then we are decided?”
The two men nodded.
“Very well. Sir Isenbard?”
Both Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus whirled around, and then flinched at the sight of the imposing knight, his hand on his sword. Neither of them, so it seemed, had been aware that he had been standing behind them the whole time.
“Yes, Milady?” A deep and strangely unfamiliar metallic voice came from behind the visor.
“I hereby appoint you supreme commander of all our armed forces. Defend us as you see fit. All our lives are in your hands, all my vassals at your command.” She threw a significant look at Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus. They understood.
Sir Isenbard bowed. “As you wish, Milady. Sir Waldar? Sir Rudolfus? Please call your men and follow me.”
She watched them march down towards the barricade. Under Sir Isenbard's orders, the force of about fifty men, consisting of the three knights' warriors and her own castle guards, positioned themselves behind the barricade. At a beckon of Isenbard's armored fist, five of his own men climbed onto the guard walk, stationing themselves atop the barricade shoulder to shoulder. With a shiver, Ayla realized that they would have to deal with the brunt of the attack.
Across the river, the horn blew again, drawing her eyes.
There he was. The red robber knight, in full armor. Now that Isenbard had shown her, she knew what wearing full armor meant. And now that she wasn't looking down on him from atop a barricade, she could fully appreciate the monstrous thing he was wearing. In the light of the morning sun, his armor glinted, as evil and impenetrable as the scales of a dragon.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching and whirled around, gripping one of the surgical knives she had brought with her. But it was only Dilli. Relieved, Ayla clutched at her heart.
“Mary Mother of God, Dilli, you scared the wits out of me! I thought you were an attack from the rear! What on earth are you doing out here?”
The maid eyed the knife in her mistress' hand apprehensively. Quickly, Ayla put it away and repeated her question: “What are you doing here?”
“I have a favor to ask, Milady.”
Ayla looked back to the red knight.
“Men!” he shouted, his deep, strangely accented voice carrying all the way over the river and to the two women beside the tents. “Today we will win a great victory! We will triumph over this nanny who calls himself a knight and does a woman's bidding!”
A roar went up from the assembled soldiers as they raised their spears and axes.
“Err... I'm happy to help you any way I can, Dilli,” Ayla replied, not letting Sir Luca out of her sight. “Only not just now, maybe? As you see, I'm a little bit busy.”
“Forward,” the red fiend shouted. “Forward to honor and victory!”
“Oh yes,” Ayla mumbled. “Honor. I'm sure there's a lot of honor in attacking innocent people and threatening to burn their homes to the ground. Blackguard!”
She felt Dilli tug at her sleeve, but at the moment she had eyes only for her foe and his forces, slowly approaching the bridge.
Again, Dilli tugged at her sleeve. “I can't go back, Milady. I... c-came to help. Please... let me help with the wounded.”
That got Ayla's attention. She turned to stare at her maid and friend. “But you're terrified of anything that bleeds, Dilli. Once, you walked by farmer Albert's house when he was beheading a chicken, and you almost fainted. You came running back to the castle in tears.”
Dilli squared her tiny shoulders and nodded, her brown curls bobbing up and down with the motion. “I know. But I still want to help.”
“Err... I'm touched, Dilli. But your place isn't here on the battlefield.”
“My place is by your side, Milady, wherever that is.” The smaller Dilli looked up at Ayla with big, begging, doe eyes. “This is my only chance to help you. Please, Milady, let me stay.”
Across the river, the men who had been marching so far broke into a run. A fearsome battlecry rose up from hundreds of bloodthirsty throats. The red robber knight urged his stallion into a gallop.
To her surprise, Ayla found herself grinning at Dilli. But was it really that surprising? In all probability, every last one of them was going to die. Why not meet death with a smile on your lips and a friend at your side?
“Do you promise not to puke all over me?” she inquired.
Dilli returned her smile, weakly. “I promise to try.”
“Fair enough. Go into the tent and start unrolling the bandages that are stacked there, will you. We're going to need them.”
The maid nodded and hurried into the tent. Ayla thanked the Lord for her friend's innocent mind. It prevented her from guessing the true motive behind Ayla sending her into the tent. The enemy army, still gathering speed, had now come within range. Dilli would see enough blood today. But she didn't need to see this. The hammer of attack was about to strike the anvil of defense, forging war.
On the barricade, the strange iron figure she had still trouble thinking of as Isenbard, raised an arm.
“Nock! Mark! Draw!”
Ayla shuddered, knowing what would come next.
“Hold... hold... loose!”
If Ayla had expected the arrows to have the same devastating effect as last time, she was bitterly disappointed. Where last time the arrows had been as bolts of lightning striking down impudent mortals, this time they were like the sting of a fly to a hydra. The many-headed monster of Sir Luca's army moved on, trampling the few who had fallen under its feet. They reached the barricade in a matter of minutes. Stones with ropes attached flew through the air, ladders were thrust upwards. The defenders hacked furiously at the ropes, tried to push back the ladders. Still, a few remained long enough for men to scramble onto the guard walk. Most were cut down immediately, falling under a storm of blows. But some remained upright, fought, and stood long enough for a second and a third man to follow them.
What was most terrible and most surprising though, in all the mayhem, was the absence of blood.
Ayla had expected fountains of blood to spew forth, but no such thing happened. The thick mail and leather armor the soldiers wore seemed to protect both sides from the sharp edges of the enemy's blades. It did not, however, protect them from the strength of the blows.
Ayla winced every time she heard it: the sickening crunch of breaking bones. Never in her life had she imagined a battle to be like this. Not a glorious duel to the death, but a violent brawl where you just hit hard enough to break your enemy’s bones and trod him down into the dirt, not caring whether he was still alive, because he was in too much pain to harm you anymore.
Concerned, Ayla looked for Isenbard in the clamor. Finally she found him, fending off three enemy mercenaries at once. She had not seen much swordplay in her life, but from the very fact that he was fighting three enemies and was still alive, she deduced that his had to be extraordinary. It looked extraordinary, too: Somehow, his sword, a graceful silver bringer of death, kept all three enemies at bay, dealing blow after blow, until two finally collapsed. The third he gripped by the throat and threw off the barricade, accompanied by cheers from his men.
“I-is it over yet?” came Dilli's timid voice from inside the tent.
Ayla didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “They haven't even brought us the first wounded man yet, Dilli. This is a battle. What do you think?”
“I was just asking.”
Ayla's concern grew. Yes, Isenbard was holding his own. But he was tiring, it was obvious. As the fight wore on, his movements became slower, his blows weaker. Once, an enemy struck him on the ribs, another time in the stomach, which caused the old knight to bellow in pain.
If Ayla hadn't been three hundred yards away, she would have used her surgical knife there and then on that miserable mercenary—and not to perform surgery.
At the foot of the barricade, a few men were lying in a tangled mess. Other men hastened to help them, grasped their arms and legs and started to carry them towards Ayla. She tensed, knowing why they were approaching.
“Prepare yourself, Dilli,” she called. “I think they're bringing us our first patients.”
“Y-yes, Milady.”
“Dilli?”
“M-Milady?”
“Remember the first rule of the craft of healing. No puking on the patient.”
“Y-yes Milady.”
Ayla's eyes were drawn back to the barricade. A fresh wave of attackers had just climbed the wooden fortifications. Four of the mercenaries made a dash at a figure among the defenders which she recognized with horror as Sir Isenbard. The knight raised his sword, fending off blows from two of the men. Then the third raised his blade—and struck Isenbard on the head.
“No!” Ayla screamed as the old knight went down and disappeared into the violent mass of bodies.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Good Morrow, Milords and Ladies!
Today, I have a special question for you. It has been suggested to me that this little tale of battles, knights and ladies might be good enough for publication. I must say that I'm seriously considering this, once the story is completed. What do you think? Is the story good enough? :)
Thank you!
Sir Rob